Crisis
by MidnightBlue88
Summary: AU. On a cold April morning in 1991, a man walks into a bank in Chicago and takes a group of people hostage in a botched armed robbery attempt. With their lives on the line, five strangers have to learn to trust in each other in order to survive.
1. Wrong Place, Wrong Time

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Breakfast Club or any of its characters.

**Genre: **Suspense/Drama

**Rating: **T for language, violence and adult situations, including references to sex and drug use.

**Summary: **AU. Detention never happened, and the Club has grown into adulthood without one another. Then, on a cold April morning in 1991, the five strangers finally come together…under very dangerous circumstances.

**A/N: **Another story. I know, shoot me already, but this time it's not my fault. This story sprung forth out of the ether, fully formed and without my consent…okay, actually, I just got a huge plot bunny when I read a challenge that TWbasketcase posted in the forums. The challenge is as follows:

"An alternative universe story. Now this can be pretty much anything, but the detention never happened. It can take place in any timeline, and just about anywhere. I always wanted to read something where all five of them met somewhere else besides the detention. They don't even have to be teenagers. If you want to write them as adults magically meeting in the busy streets of Chicago somehow, then you can. The characters still have to be the characters...but just don't have them in the same circumstances as the film."

So, in this story, detention never happened, and none of the characters know one another. The character's lives continued along the same path that they might have if they had never met during detention. Also remember that this story takes place seven years down the road. They aren't teenagers anymore, so they won't be exactly the same as they were in the film.

**A/N, part II: **DOS was the most common computer operating system of the 80's and early 90's. It used command codes to boot up the computer and open files, and is, in my opinion, a pain in the butt to use. DOS is still used today, but not very often. And for those that don't know much about how the U.S. college system works, here it goes. Most universities offer four year undergraduate programs, which, when completed, earn the student a Bachelor's degree in their field. This is enough for some jobs, but others require additional degrees, which are earned in the graduate programs. Most Master's degrees take an extra year to earn, and the student usually has to write a thesis paper on a subject in their field of study. Doctorates take even longer, requiring anywhere from 3 to 5 years of graduate work.

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Crisis

_a situation where there is a perception of threat, _  
_heightened anxiety, expectation of possible violence and the _  
_belief that any actions will have far-reaching consequences_

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Chapter One: Wrong Place, Wrong Time

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* * *

Tuesday, April 16, 1991  
__Chicago, Illinois_

* * *

Claire Standish stepped out of the elevator and into the plush lobby of her luxury apartment building, The Westing Lofts, pausing just long enough to reach down and pull her sunglasses from her purse. Her high heels snapped loudly against the marble floor as she strode across the room, heading for the door. A couple of people nodded politely in her direction as she passed, and she offered them brief nods in return, not wanting to risk getting trapped in a potentially lengthy conversation. She unfolded her sunglasses and slipped them on.

"Good morning, Miss Standish," the doorman greeted her, opening the heavy glass door for her to step through.

"Good morning, Henry."

"Will you be needing a cab this morning?"

Claire nodded. "I'm going to the State Street Bank at the corner of Jackson and State. Afterward, I'll need to be dropped off at the Rosebud Café in the theater district."

Henry nodded and stepped up to the curb to hail her a cab. When one pulled up, he leaned in and gave the driver Claire's instructions, then opened the door to the back seat and helped Claire into the cab.

"Enjoy your breakfast, Miss Standish."

Claire nodded and offered the older man a smile. "Thank you, Henry."

Henry nodded and shut the door to the cab.

As soon as the cab took off, Claire glanced down at her watch. It was 9:45, and she was supposed to meet Jacqueline for breakfast at 10:00, which is exactly when the bank opened. Claire knew that she was going to be late getting to the restaurant, but she didn't really have a choice. Besides, Jacqueline was always late to breakfast on Tuesdays, and it wouldn't hurt her to have to wait on Claire just this once.

Claire and Jacqueline had met in college, when they were both freshman at the University of Chicago. Their fathers were old friends, and they had set them up as roommates, knowing that neither of the girls wanted to go potluck and risk getting the roommate from hell. Fortunately, the girls had a lot in common and complimented one another in the way that only best friends can. Jacqueline was disorganized and messy, whereas Claire preferred neatness and structure. Jacqueline loved cooking, and Claire couldn't boil a pot of water if her life depended on it. It was a match made in heaven.

Which is why they were still friends, nearly six years later. They lived on opposite sides of the city, but the girls remained close and still met up once a week to dish about their love lives (or lack thereof) over a plate of crepes at the Rosebud Café, their favorite restaurant. Afterward, they usually went downtown to do some shopping, which was one activity that they could always agree on, no matter what was going on in their personal lives. There was something about finding a really great pair of heels in your exact favorite shade of blue that made any situation seem more manageable.

Claire frowned and looked out the window. Spending money was the last thing that she needed to being doing right about then, especially under the circumstances, but somehow that didn't matter. Shopping was the only thing that was guaranteed to make her feel good, if only for a little while, and in the middle of what Claire might call the worst year of her life, a little bit of pleasure and comfort didn't seem like too much to ask for.

As the shops flew by, Claire settled back in her seat and folded her hands in her lap, wondering idly what her father would say if he was sitting there next to her right then. It was something that she'd thought about fairly often in the three years since his death, and Claire couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't guilt that made her crave his posthumous approval. Guilt over what had happened between him and her mother, guilt that she had taken him for granted while he was still alive, and, worst of all, guilt that she had let him down in the years since he'd died. Guilt that she had taken everything that he'd given her and thrown it all away.

"Miss?"

Claire looked up, startled by the sudden noise. "Yes?"

The cab driver was looking at her in his rear view mirror. "State Street Bank?"

Claire glanced out the window to see that they were parked along the curb at the corner of State and Jackson, not fifteen feet away from the front doors of the State Street Bank. Inside, she could see the bank employees moving around, preparing to open for business.

"Wait for me here," she told the cab driver. "I'll be right back."

* * *

Brian Johnson arrived at the State Street Bank just after 9:50, less than ten minutes before the bank opened. The doors were locked, so he knocked softly on the glass panes to get the bank manager's attention. When the older man saw him standing there, he rushed over to the door and unlocked it for him.

"Good morning, Brian."

Brian nodded. "Good morning, Mr. Weisman."

The manager locked the door behind him. "We're in a bit of a pinch this morning," he informed him, pocketing the keys and walking back across the room. Brian trailed behind him. "Marjorie is stuck in traffic, and she won't be here for at least another thirty minutes."

"Oh." Marjorie Williams was the president of the bank, and Brian didn't remember a time when she wasn't present at the time that the bank opened. "What are we going to do?"

"Open without her." Mr. Weisman reached up to straighten his tie. "I've done it before. We'll be alright."

Brian nodded. "Yeah, sure."

Mr. Weisman took a deep breath. "There's some fresh coffee in the break room if you want some."

Brian nodded. "Thank you."

Mr. Weisman offered Brian a distracted nod and walked back behind the register to check the till.

On the way back to the break room, Brian ran into the janitor, who was pulling trash bags out of a box in the supply closet. "Morning, Brian."

Brian nodded politely. "Hi, Carl."

"You still havin' trouble sleepin'?" the older man asked.

Brian reached up to rub his eyes, swollen from lack of sleep. "A little," he admitted.

Carl nodded. "You take care of yourself. Don't want to burn out."

_Too late for that_, thought Brian. But he didn't say the words out loud. "Thanks, I'll try."

Carl gave him a friendly smile and turned back to the supply closet.

In the break room, all of the other employees were standing around, talking. Two of the accountants, Richard and Amanda, were having a conversation with a couple of the loan officers about some television show, while Lewis, one of the other tellers, stood next to the coffee pot, taking small sips from a chipped yellow mug with the bank's logo on the front. When Brian walked in, he looked up and nodded. "Hey."

Brian nodded. "Hey." He glanced over at Richard and Amanda, then back at Lewis. "Where's James?"

Lewis swallowed another sip of coffee. "He went over to the deli for bagels. He should be back in a minute."

"Oh." Brian opened the refrigerator door and slipped his lunch sack into a space between a brown and white thermos and a plastic container filled with soup. He closed the door and looked up to see Lewis watching him.

"Are you okay?"

Brian paused uncertainly. "Why?"

Lewis shrugged. "I don't know. You look really beat."

Brian shrugged, doing his best to act nonchalant. "I just haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately."

Lewis nodded. "More school stuff?"

Brian's stomach tightened at the mention of the word 'school', but he just nodded. "Yeah, just school stuff."

Lewis nodded again and took another sip of his coffee, and Brian released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Lewis was his friend, and Brian trusted him, but he didn't want to talk about what had happened. Not now, not ever. He knew he would have to tell people sooner or later, but he was too tired to do it just then.

Over the years, Brian had gotten used to being tired, and he'd gradually come to accept it as his normal condition. During high school, he would stay up late to study for an exam or finish writing an essay, only to feel it the next morning when he had trouble staying awake during his classes. He expected that he would have more time to study when he got to college since he would spend far less time in class than he had in high school, but he soon found out that he was greatly mistaken. College was not anything that Brian was prepared for, emotionally or physically. He had graduated fifth in his class of over four hundred people, but that meant very little at Northwestern, where _everyone_ could boast about stellar grades and above-average test scores.

The first couple of years were a struggle, but Brian got through them without screwing up too badly. His third year was better, and his fourth year even better than the last. He graduated with a solid 3.5 GPA and was accepted to the graduate program at Northwestern's Chicago campus, where he pursued his Master's degree in American History.

And then everything started falling apart.

He'd thought that the undergraduate program at Northwestern was tough, but it was nothing compared to the graduate program. The students were rabid about studying, and the professors weren't interested in excuses or mediocrity. Brian quickly found himself falling behind on his work, struggling to complete tasks that seemed to require very little effort from his peers in the history department. The stress ate away at his energy and motivation, leaving him tired and distracted. He tried his best to catch up, but pretty soon he realized that his best wasn't good enough. He was screwed.

"Brian."

Brian glanced up, startled. "Yeah?"

Lewis was watching him, eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Brian swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to nod. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Lewis nodded, but Brian could tell that he didn't believe him. Before he could ask anymore questions, Brian said, "I guess we should get out there."

Lewis glanced up at the clock, which read 9:59. "Yeah, I guess so."

The two of them walked back out to the lobby, where Mr. Weisman was changing the date on the small plaque on counter in front of Brian's station. April 16, 1991.

Suddenly, Brian heard a knocking sound coming from the front of the room. He turned to see a woman standing just outside of the door, peering into the bank. She looked at Mr. Weisman and tapped her watch, which looked quite expensive from where Brian was standing.

Mr. Weisman glanced up at the clock and sighed. "I guess we're open, aren't we?"

It was ten o'clock on the dot.

The manager took his keys from his trouser pocket and walked over to the door to unlock it. "Good morning," he said cheerily.

The woman, a redhead wearing a light blue silk shirt and a pair of cream colored trousers, brushed past him. "Thank you," she said, making a beeline for the counters. She walked straight up to Lewis's booth and pulled out her wallet.

Brian looked back at Mr. Weisman, who had closed the door and was walking back to his desk. He shot Brian an encouraging smile, then sat down and picked up his coffee mug.

Less than a minute later, the front door opened again, and a man in a grey business suit walked in, glancing quickly around the room. When he noticed Mr. Weisman, he walked straight over to the bank manager's desk.

"Are you sure that's all that's left?"

Brian looked back to his left, where the redheaded woman was standing, looking up at Lewis with a worried expression on her face. Lewis nodded and wrote a few notes on a piece of paper, which he passed across the counter. The woman looked down at the paper, and Brian watched as her face crumpled slightly. He glanced over at Lewis, who looked uncomfortable, but not entirely sympathetic.

"Excuse me."

Brian looked up to see an older man--maybe 50 or 55--standing at the counter in front of him. He was wearing a grey trench coat over a white button-down shirt, along with a matching grey hat. Judging by the pinched, irritated expression on his face, he wasn't going to be any easier to deal with than the redhead.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The man nodded and pushed a deposit slip across the counter. "I sure hope so."

* * *

Andrew Clark glared at the computer screen in front of him, wondering what he could possibly be doing wrong this time. He was trying to access a client database to finish a report that he was working on, but the database wasn't loading. He knew that he wasn't very good with computers, but sometimes he had to wonder if it wasn't the _computer's_ fault that he kept getting those error messages.

"Come on," he muttered. "Just fucking work already."

In response, the computer started beeping loudly and wouldn't stop.

Andy didn't know what to do, so he reached back around and flipped the power switch. The screen went blank, and the beeping stopped. Andy waited for a few seconds before he turned it back on.

"Load DOS," he whispered under his breath as he typed in the command to restart the computer.

**_Bad command or file name_**

"Fuck!" Andy stood up and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair, then walked out into the hall. His friend Doug was standing next to the fax machine, waiting for confirmation that his fax had gone through.

"I need your help."

Doug looked up from the fax machine. "Oh, hey, man."

"The computer's screwed up again, and I can't get DOS to load."

Doug frowned. "What happened?"

Andy rolled his eyes. "If I knew, I wouldn't be standing here, would I?"

Doug sighed. "I'll take a look at it."

"Thanks." Andy glanced up at the clock on the wall above Doug's head, which read 9:53. "I'm gonna head down to the bank. I have to finish signing some papers."

Doug lifted his eyebrows. "Is this about the ring?"

Andy nodded.

Doug grinned. "When are you going to pick it up?"

"This afternoon, I hope. Mr. Jorgensen said I can pick it up whenever I pay."

"Do you think she knows?"

Andy shrugged. "I don't know. She hasn't said anything."

Doug laughed. "They always know. It's in the training manual. 'How to Tell if a Guy's Going to Propose, Chapter Nine'."

Andy rolled his eyes. "And you wonder why you don't have a girlfriend." Before Doug could respond, he hit him lightly on the shoulder and started walking toward the staircase. "Don't forget about my computer."

Doug offered him a halfhearted salute and went back to his fax.

Andy took the stairs down to the lobby, despite the fact that he wanted to hurry and get back before his boss realized he was gone. With Andy, it was a matter of principle--and probably habit--that he not take any shortcuts when it came to maintaining his strength. He hadn't wrestled since college, but he still made it a point to go to the gym three or four times a week, and he always took the stairs up to his fifth floor office. As a result, he was still in pretty good shape, and he hadn't gained more than a couple of pounds in the three years since he graduated…which didn't hurt him any when it came to women.

Andy allowed himself a small smile as he pushed open the door leading out to the street. He'd met Holly on a blind date set up by one of the guys at his office. Andy had never been on a blind date before, mostly because he'd done pretty well getting his own dates, and the idea just reeked of desperation. But the guy had assured Andy that the girl wasn't a dud, that she just didn't have time to date since her job as a stewardess kept her away from home for days at a time. Andy wasn't sure about the whole arrangement, but his doubts vanished the moment he met her. Not only was she gorgeous, but she was also a nice person. She told him about all of the places she'd been, what the beaches were like in Cozumel, what the food was like in Tokyo. She laughed at his jokes, even the dumb ones, and when he told her about his wrestling days, her eyes didn't glaze over like those of so many women he'd dated in the past. She listened to him and asked questions and took an active interest. In short, she was perfect.

Andy totally didn't deserve her.

But Holly didn't know that, and Andy certainly wasn't going to tell her. So, there he was, almost two years after their first date, running down to the bank to sign the papers for a loan that would pay for a one-carat emerald-cut diamond solitaire with a yellow gold band. A good choice, the jeweler told him. A beautiful ring for a beautiful girl.

Andy pulled open the glass doors of the State Street Bank and stepped inside. There were two tellers at the counter, a short guy with messy dark hair and a taller guy with short blonde hair. A woman was standing at the counter in front of the shorter guy, looking slightly exasperated. Andy glanced over at the manager's desk, where an older man wearing wire-rimmed glasses was sitting at his desk drinking from a coffee mug that read 'World's Greatest Dad'.

"Mr. Weisman?"

The older man looked up. "Yes, sir?" He stood from his chair. "How can I help you?"

"My name is Andrew Clark. I'm here to finish signing the paperwork for a loan I was approved for last week."

Mr. Weisman smiled. "Of course. Mr. Clark. I remember you. Have a seat and I'll be right back with those papers."

Andy nodded and took a seat in the leather chair in front of the manager's desk, which was cluttered with photos. There was one of Mr. Weisman and a little boy that looked to be about six years old, and another one of the two of them standing with a woman that Andy assumed was Mr. Weisman's wife. They looked happy, he decided. The way a family was supposed to look.

The front doors opened again, and Andy looked up to see an older man wearing a dark grey trench coat and a matching hat walking toward the counter in the middle of the lobby. He grabbed a deposit slip and filled it out very quickly, then marched up to the counter where the blonde bank teller was standing.

A few seconds later, the door opened again, and a girl walked in. She was young, probably about his age, and she was wearing a white button down shirt and a pair of black trousers. Andy would have bet a million dollars that it was a uniform of some kind, probably from a restaurant or deli. She took her place behind the white line and stuffed one hand into her pocket.

Andy glanced down at his watch. 10:03. Hopefully it wouldn't take too long to sign the papers, and he could get back to the office by 10:20 or so. That would give Doug at least twenty minutes to figure out what the hell was wrong with his computer so that Andy could get his report done in time for lunch and he wouldn't have to stay behind while the other guys went to the deli in the lobby downstairs.

Andy sighed and settled back into his chair. He was already hungry.

* * *

Allison Reynolds pushed open the door to Hank's Diner and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She paused in the doorway for a few seconds so that she could remove her apron, which she stuffed into the knapsack slung over her shoulder. Then she jammed her hand into the pocket of her black trousers and closed her hand over the wad of one dollar bills, just to make sure they were still there. Satisfied, she adjusted her knapsack and started walking down the street.

The Diner was about ten blocks from her apartment, but Allison didn't mind walking. When she'd first moved to Chicago right after she graduated from high school, it took her a long time to get used to the throngs of people lining the sidewalks and crowding onto street corners as they waited for the light to change so they could cross. The people made her nervous, especially when they bumped into her or walked behind her, giving Allison the distinct feeling that she was being followed. She hated being jostled by the crowd…almost worse than she hated being followed.

But after a while, Allison got used to being jostled and followed. In fact, living in Chicago had helped her get used to a lot of things, like surviving on pork and beans for weeks at a time and creeping up the staircase to get to her apartment so that the landlord wouldn't realize she was home and come out into the hallway, demanding his money. It had been a while since she'd been that poor and desperate, but not long enough that she didn't remember what it felt like.

But she did know what it felt like to be tired. Allison worked almost sixty hours a week at Hank's Diner, a greasy spoon restaurant in the middle of downtown. She worked the night shift usually, arriving at ten o'clock at night and leaving sometime between nine and ten o'clock in the morning. She hated her job, but she kept going, knowing that it would be worth it someday…someday very soon.

Suddenly, Allison felt herself being pushed aside, so hard that the force knocked her right into the side of the building that she was walking next to. Rubbing her arm, she looked up to see who had pushed her. It was a young guy about her age, with dark brown hair and matching eyes. He didn't stop to help her up, just muttered something under his breath and kept walking.

Allison huffed loudly and readjusted the strap to her knapsack, pulling the bag tighter against her body. The guy continued walking in the direction that she was heading, and within a few seconds he was swallowed up by the crowd. Allison kept her bag pressed firmly against hip as she started walking again.

The State Street Bank was only a few blocks from Hank's Diner, and within about ten minutes of leaving the restaurant, she was already pulling open the heavy glass doors. The bank wasn't crowded, but there was a guy in a suit sitting at the manager's desk, and both tellers were busy helping other customers. One of them, a redhead with an expensive looking bag dangling from one arm, seemed to be quite agitated over something the guy across the counter was telling her, but Allison couldn't tell what it was about. She slid up to the front of the line and glanced up at the clock on the wall. 10:03. In fifteen minutes, she could be back at her apartment, where her bed was waiting for her, soft and warm.

But a lot can happen in fifteen minutes.

* * *

John Bender stood at the corner of Randolph and State Street, waiting for the light to change. There were people all around him, pressing themselves against one another to stand as close to the edge of the curb as possible. John, who was standing at the very edge of the curb with his combat boots hanging over the edge, flicked his eyes back and forth between the crosswalk sign and the lanes of oncoming traffic. There were a couple of cabs heading in his direction, but they were pretty far off down the street. Even though the light hadn't changed, he stepped out onto the street anyway, taking a chance.

_SCREECH!_

John glanced over at the cab, which had come to a dead stop about six inches from his left kneecap. "What, are you crazy?" the driver yelled out of his window.

John responded with a friendly hand gesture and continued crossing the street.

As he walked, his mind sifted through the tasks he needed to accomplish that day. He had to be at work at the pawn shop by eleven, which gave him a little over an hour to meet Eli and give him some of the cash that he still owed him. The grand sum of his debt was close to a thousand dollars, but of course John didn't have that much on him. He'd been paying Eli bits and pieces of it for the past two months, but it seemed like every time he turned around, Eli was tacking on an extra fifty for "interest" or "late fees", like he was some fucking bank and John was his errant customer. But in a world where people kept their money under the mattress instead of in a savings account, he figured it was probably pretty close to the truth.

John had borrowed the money about three months previous, when he was in deep with a big-time dealer in his neighborhood. Eli had spotted him the cash on the condition that John would give him a hundred bucks a week until it was paid off, interest and all. He was usually pretty easy about it if John needed an extra day or so, but John knew that Eli wasn't his friend. This was a business, and if it took breaking John's legs into half a dozen pieces to get all of his money back, then Eli wouldn't hesitate to do so. John could only hope that it wouldn't come to that.

When he'd first moved to Chicago back in the fall of 1985, John hadn't planned on getting involved in the nighttime dealings that went on in the alleyways behind his apartment building. He played it straight, found a job, did his best to pay the rent on time. But unsurprisingly, his job at the pawn shop didn't pay very well, and after a while he started to explore other business opportunities. Compared to most of the guys in his neighborhood, he was pretty small-time, providing mostly weed, mushrooms and pills, sometimes acid or ecstasy if he could get his hands on some. It wasn't nearly as profitable as he once believed it was (back in high school when he was the buyer, not the seller), but it did help him out a little when his paycheck took care of the rent, but not much else.

John glanced down at his watch. 9:57. That meant that he had more than an hour to--

Suddenly, John felt his shoulder slam into something soft, and he looked up from his watch just in time to see the person that he'd run into crash into the wall to their right. Knowing that he would just get yelled at if he tried to help, he muttered a stiff apology under his breath and continued walking down the street.

When he got to the corner of State and Jackson, he realized that he really needed to pee. He glanced across the street, where Goldberg's Deli was located. He knew the deli had public restrooms, but he also knew that the owner, Ted, was still pissed at him for starting a fist fight with one of his best customers when the guy cut in front of him in line. John was pretty sure that Ted would just as soon flush his head down the toilet than let him take a piss.

John looked to the other side of the street, where the glass doors of the State Street Bank were gleaming in the sunlight. Banks had restrooms, didn't they? Surely they wouldn't make their employees go back out into the alley behind the building like George did with the guys at the pawn shop. John crossed the street and headed straight for the bank's front entrance.

Inside, the air was warm and clean, and it smelled like leather and air freshener. There were a few customers scattered around the lobby. A man in a trench coat and a redhead in a snug-fitting blouse were standing at the counter, talking to the tellers. Another girl was standing in line, and a young businessman was sitting at the bank manager's desk, staring out over the room. John looked around until he spotted the manager standing at a file cabinet a few feet away from his desk.

"Excuse me, do you have a restroom?"

The bank manager glanced up, surprised. John watched his eyes flicker over his worn leather jacket and faded black t-shirt, and instinctively he knew what the man's response would be.

"I'm sorry, but our restrooms are for employees only," the manager told him. "They're not for public use." To his credit, he _did_ sound apologetic.

"It'll only take a minute," John assured him. "I don't even need to use any of your toilet paper."

The man frowned. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you back there. It's the bank's policy, not mine."

John sighed. "Come on, man, it'll just take a second. I just have to--"

"GIVE IT TO ME!"

John's heart skipped a beat, and he turned around to see that the older man with the trench coat was standing at the counter across from a very nervous looking bank teller. He had a gun in his hand, and it was aimed at the younger man's forehead.

"Just give me the fucking money!" he shouted.

Oh, shit.

* * *

A/N: Definition of 'crisis' from wikipedia.

Please review and let me know what you think of this first chapter. Thanks!


	2. Stay Calm

A/N: Thank you for all of the wonderful reviews! Thank you to those that left an anonymous review. I can't respond to you via review reply, but I do appreciate your thoughts. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter.

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Chapter Two: Stay Calm

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Brian stared down at the piece of paper in front of him, hoping this was a dream.

The bank had prepared them for robberies. The tellers especially had to be trained to deal with these kinds of situations. When he'd first been hired at the State Street Bank, he had attended a safety seminar that instructed bank employees on security procedures, including what to do during a robbery. There had been a list of things he was supposed to remember when faced with a situation like this.

He couldn't remember a single one of them.

"Do you know how to read?" the man asked sarcastically, keeping his voice low so that no one else could hear him.

Brian glanced up at the man, who was watching him very closely with his eyes narrowed. Brian nodded and looked back down at the deposit slip in front of him.

_Do not say a word to anyone. Open your drawers and take out all of the money. Place it in the bag that I am about to give you. Don't do anything stupid. I have a gun._

Brian looked up again to see that the man had pulled a cloth bag from his coat pocket. He passed the bag across the counter and nodded for Brian to continue.

That was when Brian started to get _really _nervous. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to do next. Was he supposed to give him the money? Should he try to get Mr. Weisman's attention to let him know what's going on? Was it better to give the guy the money right away so that he could leave and no one would get hurt, or was it better to stall and hope that the police arrive so that he wouldn't get away? Brian's head was swimming with questions without answers.

**Rule Number One: Stay Calm.**

Brian took a deep breath. Okay, he could do that. Calm, stay calm. He exhaled slowly and reached out to take the bag.

"Hurry up, I don't have all day," the man growled.

With shaking hands, Brian opened the cash drawer and started removing the money. Twenties first, then tens and fives and ones. When he was finished, he looked up at the robber, silently asking what he was supposed to do next.

"Is that it?" the guy asked, obviously irritated.

Brian nodded.

"How much is in there?"

Brian opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He honestly couldn't remember how much money was in the till. In fact, if someone had asked him for his name, he probably wouldn't have been able to remember that either.

"Well?"

Brian shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted.

The man's nostrils flared angrily, and he took a short, uneven breath. "Then give me what's in his drawer," he said, motioning over to where Lewis was standing.

Again, Brian hesitated. He glanced over at Lewis, who was still talking to the woman with the red hair. Neither of them had realized what happening just four feet away from where they were standing. If he interrupted the conversation, the customer would realize what was going on and become frightened. Was there some way that he could get the money without looking suspicious? Maybe he could ask Lewis to step back and--

"GIVE IT TO ME!"

Brian jumped, his heart skipping a beat. The man, who was apparently growing increasingly frustrated with the teller's speed, reached into the inside of his coat and pulled out a gun, which he aimed straight at Brian's forehead. "Just give me the fucking money!" he shouted.

The entire room went silent, and Brian felt an eerie calm wash over him. The barrel of the gun, just inches away from his face, came into sharp focus, and the pounding of blood in his ears became so loud that Brian felt like he was inside his own heart, listening to the cardiac muscles expand and contract in a steady rhythm. _Bump bump, bump bump…_

"Do you hear me?" the man shouted, pressing the gun directly against Brian's forehead. "I said, give it to me!"

Brian swallowed and nodded. He turned to look at Lewis, who was standing a few feet away, watching the gunman closely. "Open your drawer," Brian told him.

Lewis nodded and opened the drawer. Brian passed him the cloth bag, and Lewis started stuffing money into it. He was taking out the tens when Mr. Weisman stepped behind the counter, coming up behind Lewis and Brian.

Immediately, the gunman turned his gun on the bank manager. "Did I say you could move? Step back!"

Mr. Weisman lifted his hands to chest level, palms facing out. "I'm the bank manager. I don't want anyone to get hurt," he said calmly.

The gunman paused. "Is there any more money in those drawers?" he asked, motioning to the last teller's booth, the one James would have been standing at had he not left to get bagels.

Mr. Weisman nodded. "Some."

The robber nodded at the bag. "Fill it."

Mr. Weisman nodded and accepted the bag from Lewis, who had finished emptying his till. The gunman glanced over at the redheaded customer, who was still standing at the counter in front of Lewis, frozen in terror. "Get out of the way," he told her, turning to look out over the room. "Everyone stand against that wall!" he ordered, motioning toward the wall opposite the tellers' counters.

The redhead's eyes were wide with shock, but she did as she was told and rushed over to the far wall, where three other customers were standing.

"It's going to be alright," Brian heard Mr. Weisman whisper into his left ear. He turned to see the older man standing next him, his expression reflecting concern and determination. "Just do what he says and--"

"What are you doing?" the gunman shouted. "I don't have time for this. Just put the money in the bag and give it to me!"

Mr. Weisman held the bag out for the man to take. "It's all here."

The gunman grabbed the bag with his free hand and glanced inside. "That's it?"

Mr. Weisman nodded. "All three drawers."

The man glanced up, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Where is the rest of the money?" he asked.

Mr. Weisman paused. "We gave it all--"

"It's a fucking _bank_!" the gunman shouted. "Where is the rest of the money?"

Mr. Weisman sighed. "The rest is in the safe. I don't have the combination."

"Who _does _have the combination?"

"The bank president. She's not here right now."

The gunman's nostrils flared again, and he released a frustrated breath. "Fine," he muttered, moving towards the door.

And then he stopped.

Brian's breath caught in his throat as the gunman turned and looked at the bank manager. "Do you trip the alarm?" he demanded.

Mr. Weisman shook his head. "No."

The other man glanced out the door again. "Well, someone must have, because there are three cop cars parked across the street!"

Brian didn't know whether to feel relieved or worried about this information. A few seconds later, he got his answer.

"You three! Get over there with the others." The older man motioned with his gun toward the wall, where the four customers were standing. "Everybody sit down!"

Brian, Lewis and Mr. Weisman did as they were told and joined the others on the floor.

The gunman paced, glancing out the window and trying to decide what to do. After a moment, he looked over at the seven people huddled against the wall. He pointed his gun at the blonde man in the grey suit.

"You!"

* * *

Andy swallowed deeply as the man turned the gun on him. "You!" he shouted. "Go close the blinds."

Andy nodded briefly and stood up to do as he was told. When he reached the window, he glanced outside to see five cop cars parked across the street. Apparently, two more had arrived while the gunman was plotting his next move. A couple of police officers were standing behind the vehicles, talking on their radios as they watched the bank door.

"Hurry up! What are you doing?"

Andy reached up and closed the blinds covering the windows.

"The ones over the door, too."

Andy nodded and moved over to the door to let down the blinds. He caught a glimpse of another cop car pulling up to the curb just before he closed them all the way.

"Okay, get back over here with the others," the gunman told him, motioning over to the wall. Andy returned to his seat between the girl with the knapsack and the woman with the red hair.

The gunman kept pacing, obviously trying to figure out how he was going to get out of this situation. A couple of times Andy saw him glance down the hall toward the back of the bank, and he wondered if he was thinking about going out the back door. Surely they had cops back there, too, covering all of the exits. The gunman must have realized this because he didn't try to go back there.

After about a minute of pacing, the man walked over to the manager's desk and picked up the phone. He pressed the handset to his ear, and his eyes widened. "Who is this?" he asked.

Andy glanced over at the bank manager, who was watching the gunman, brow furrowed in concern.

"I said, who is this?" the man shouted into the phone. He glanced down the hallway again, pulling the phone cord so that it would reach. "If you don't come out into the lobby within fifteen seconds, I'll kill one of the customers!"

Andy's stomach tightened involuntarily, and the redhead next to him let out a small, breathy gasp.

Everyone waited with baited breath for the person on the other line to step into the lobby. After a few seconds, a man wearing a janitor's uniform walked out, hands held up to show that he wasn't armed.

The gunman hung up the phone. "Was that the police you were talking to?"

The janitor nodded.

The robber swore under his breath. "Get over by the wall!" he told him.

The janitor nodded and sat down next to the bank manager. The gunman started pacing again, glancing over at the phone every few seconds.

"Where are the others?"

Andy glanced over to see the bank manager speaking in hushed tones with the janitor. "Are they alright?"

The janitor nodded. "They went out the back," he said quietly. "The police have the building surrounded."

Mr. Weisman released a shallow breath. "Good."

Andy looked away from the manager and the janitor and over at the two tellers, who were sitting next to Mr. Weisman. He expected them to look frightened after what they'd been through, but both of the guys looked calm…too calm. The guy with the brown hair had his arms crossed over his chest, and the blonde guy was staring straight ahead, his face expressionless. Andy wondered if he'd gone into shock.

He heard something next to him move, and he looked over at the girl with the brown hair. She was sitting between Andy and the blonde teller, her hands folded in her lap and her head resting against the wall.

"Are you alright?" Andy asked her.

The girl looked over at him, startled. Her eyes narrowed, and she stared at him suspiciously, as if _he_ was the one waving the gun around and threatening to kill everyone.

"Fine," he muttered, looking away. "Forget I asked."

After a few more minutes of pacing, the gunman reached for the phone again. He held it up to his ear to listen, and Andy watched his face scrunch up angrily. "Shit," he muttered, replacing the phone on its cradle.

To his right, the redhead took in a short, unsteady breath. "What happened? Why is he mad?"

Andy shrugged.

"They cut the phone lines."

Andy turned to see who was speaking. It was the guy in the black leather jacket, the one who had walked in just before everything exploded. He was sitting to the left of the redhead, facing the manager's desk, where the gunman was still standing. When he noticed that Andy and the redheaded woman were watching him, he looked over at them, his expression blank. "They don't want him to be able to get in touch with anyone that could help him escape," he explained. "Later, they'll probably set it up so that only the police can get through."

"How do you know?" the girl asked.

"Because I'm a police officer," he said sarcastically.

Andy rolled his eyes, and the redhead narrowed hers.

"It was just a question," she muttered, looking away.

The guy didn't respond, just looked over at the front door, bored.

Andy sighed and settled back against the wall. On the other side of the room, the gunman was sitting at the manager's desk, staring at the phone. Once, he picked it up to listen for a dial tone, then replaced it on its cradle again. He ran a hand through his dark grey hair and sighed, leaning forward so that he was resting with his elbows on the desk and his chin resting in one hand. The gun was dangling from his other hand, aimed at nothing in particular.

And then Andy wondered if there wasn't something that he should do. The gunman wasn't paying much attention to any of them for the moment, and it was possible that he and a couple of the guys in the room could overtake him if they played their cards right. He glanced over at the bank manager and the janitor, who were sitting quietly with their backs against the wall. Should he try and get their attention? Would the gunman hear him if he whispered? What if he--

Suddenly, the phone rang, startling everyone in he room, including the gunman, who was sitting the closest to it. He looked over at the people sitting against the wall, then back to the phone, undecided. Finally, he looked straight at Andy and nodded. "You. Come answer it."

Andy stood from the floor and took a deep breath. Here was his chance. If he could distract the guy or get close enough to him, he might be able to catch him off guard and take his gun away. He started going through old wrestling moves in his mind, trying to decide which one would be most effective. Perhaps he should just let instinct take over and not over think it--

"Come on, answer it!" the guy shouted, pointing the gun at Andy's chest.

Andy stopped at the desk and lifted the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"_This is Lieutenant Sikes with the Chicago Police Department. Who am I speaking with?"_

Andy cleared his throat. "Andrew Clark."

"_Mr. Clark, have you or any of the others been injured?"_

"No," Andy said quietly.

"_Has the man with the gun threatened to use it if you or any of the others don't do as he says?"_

Andy swallowed. "Yes."

"What is he saying?" The gunman was standing about three feet away, watching Andy closely. "Tell me what he's saying."

"_Is that the man who's keeping you there?"_

Andy nodded, though he knew the officer couldn't see him. "Yes."

"What is he saying?" the gunman asked again.

"_Is the man unstable? Does he appear to be under the influence of drugs or alcohol? Is he talking to himself or having hallucinations?"_

Andy paused, looking up at the gunman. "I…I don't think so."

"Tell me what he's saying!" the man shouted, raising the gun so that it was pointed at Andy's head.

"_Mr. Clark, it is extremely important that you stay calm and do not attempt to handle the situation for yourself. The police department has set up a barricade outside of the bank, and we are working on resolving this situation without any further violence. Do you understand?"_

Andy nodded again, his heart hammering so loudly that he wondered if the police officer could hear it through the phone lines. "Yes, I underst--"

"Tell me what he's saying!" the gunman shouted, pushing the barrel of the gun against Andy's temple. "NOW!"

Andy closed his eyes, trying to ignore the way the cold metal felt against the flushed skin of his temple. "He said to stay calm," he said quietly.

The man stared at him for a long minute, breathing heavily, as he tried to decide if Andy was lying to him or not.

"_Mr. Clark, are you alright? Can you hear me?"_

The gunman grabbed the phone from Andy's hand and waved the gun toward the wall where the others were sitting. "Sit down!" he roared.

Andy nodded stiffly and walked back to his seat. The others were watching him, eyes wide with fear. When he sat down, the redhead put a hand on his arm. "Are you alright?" she asked.

Andy nodded, unable to meet her eyes.

"You don't need to know my name!"

Andy looked up to see that the gunman had the phone pressed against his ear. "I'm calling the shots here, do you understand? I'm holding all the cards. _I_ tell you what _I_ want, and _you_ give it to me."

Andy watched as the man's face twisted into a sneer. "Well, in that case, you'd better give me what I want, isn't that right, _Lieutenant_?" He spat out the last word like it was profanity, something to be mocked.

Andy glanced over at the redhead, and she looked back at him, her eyes clouded with worry.

"I'll tell you what I want. I want the combination to the bank safe." As the man spoke, he stared pointedly at the bank manager. "And when I get that, I want a one-way ticket to Jamaica."

To Andy's left, the guy with the long, dark hair snorted derisively. The gunman must not have heard him because he didn't look over at him.

"Okay, I'll release a hostage…"

Andy's pulse quickened, and he looked up to see that the gunman was staring at the bank manager again, his expression smug.

"…as long as he returns with the combination to the safe."

Andy glanced over at Mr. Weisman, who was still watching the other man, his face as calm as possible under the circumstances.

The gunman shifted the phone from one ear to the other. "I'll send out the bank manager, but that's it. And he has to come back with the combination or I'll start killing the others."

Andy looked down at the gun in the man's hand, and he remembered the way the barrel felt pushed up against his head, cold and unforgiving. He imagined the gunman pulling the trigger, on him and all the others, and his eyelids fluttered closed as a shiver ran down his spine.

"_Mr. Clark, it is extremely important that you stay calm…"_

Andy swallowed, pushing the fear away. He wasn't a coward. He wasn't going to die. He was going to stay calm and help the police get these people out alive.

"Alright, I'm sending him out." The gunman hung up the phone and walked back around the desk so that he was standing in middle of the room, right next to the small oval-shaped counter where they kept the deposit slips. He pointed at the manager with his gun. "On your feet, pal!"

The manager nodded and did as he was told.

"I'm sending you out to get me the combination to the safe," the gunman told him. "When you get it, you come back here and give it to me. Is that clear, Mr. Weisman?"

The bank manager took a deep breath. "I think you should send someone else. I'll stay here, and you can let one of the customers go--"

"I'm sending you!" the gunman shouted. "_You_ are going to find the president of the bank, and _you_ are going to ask him for the combination to the safe! Do you need me to say it again?"

Mr. Weisman shook his head. "No," he said quietly.

The gunman nodded, satisfied. "Now go, and hurry up."

Mr. Weisman nodded again and glanced down at the two bank tellers. "Everything's going to be alright," he assured them.

"MOVE!"

The gunman pushed Mr. Weisman toward the door, and the manager stumbled, but remained upright. The older man kept the gun trained on Mr. Weisman's back, but kept a good distance from the door. With one final glance back at the others, Mr. Weisman pushed open the doors and stepped outside, hands raised in the air to show that he wasn't armed.

As soon as the door closed again, Andy let out a deep breath. In a way, he was sorry to see the bank manager go because he knew that the older man had a good head on his shoulders and would be helpful when it came to resolving the crisis, but he was also kind of glad. He remembered the photos on Mr. Weisman's desk, of his wife and his little boy, and Andy hoped that he wouldn't be back.

Beside him, the girl with the red hair sniffled, and Andy turned to see that she was crying quietly, brushing the tears from her cheeks. She looked over at him, eyes wide and glassy. "What's going to happen to us?" she asked him, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

Andy swallowed and did his best to look confident, even though he felt anything but. "We're going to get out of here," he told her. "I promise."

* * *

A/N: Phew, that was kind of intense to write! I don't know if my heart's going to be able to handle all of this pressure. Anyway, please review and let me know what you think. I'd really, really appreciate it. Thanks! 


	3. Heroes and Fuck Ups

**A/N: **Sorry, I probably should have addressed this earlier, but I'll do it now. None of the characters know one another AT ALL. They are never going to have a "Don't I know you from high school?" moment in this story. I suppose they still went to the same high school, but I'm working on the assumption that they didn't know one another at all, even Andy and Claire. Call it magic, call it a convenient plot device, call it AU, call it whatever you want. I just want this to be the first time they've ever met. In this story, Carl was never the high school janitor; he was always the bank janitor. So, they didn't know him either (except for Brian, who works with him). I hope that doesn't disappoint anyone too badly, but for plot purposes, I kind of wanted to take this in a different direction.

**Chapter Three: Heroes and Fuck-Ups**

Claire brushed the tears from her cheeks and took a deep breath to calm herself. The guy in the suit--Andrew Clark was what he'd called himself on the phone--had told her that everything was going to be alright, and she believed him. She _had_ to. There wasn't any other choice.

The gunman was standing next to the window, peeking through a gap in the blinds to see how the bank manager was being received by the policeman guarding the front of the bank. After a couple of minutes, he stepped away from the window and looked over at the people sitting against the wall, his eyes finally settling on Claire. She swallowed deeply, afraid to move.

"There's no reason to cry," he said harshly, frowning at her messy display of emotion. "As soon as the manager gets back and gets me my money, you'll all be free to leave."

Beside her, the man with the long, dark hair scoffed loudly and shook his head in disbelief.

The gunman looked over at him, his eyes narrowed. "Something funny?" he shouted angrily.

The guy shrugged lazily.

The older man took a step toward him, pointing the gun at the man's chest. "Do you think _this_ is funny?" he asked.

The younger guy cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed.

This only served to anger the gunman even more. "What's so goddamn funny?" he demanded.

The man beside her rolled his eyes. "You're new at this, aren't you?"

The gunman paused. "What makes you say that?"

The guy scoffed. "Because you're fucking the whole thing up!"

"You watch your tongue, young man!" the gunman shouted, waggling the gun at him. "Watch it!"

The guy just shook his head, ignoring him. "First off, police don't send hostages _back_ into a potentially deadly situation. You'll never see that guy again in your life."

The gunman just stared at him, lips pursed together. He didn't interrupt him.

"And secondly, Jamaica?" the guy asked, rolling his eyes. "_Jamaica_?"

"What about it?" the gunman asked defensively. "It's a beautiful place, and I'm tired of the snow."

"We're in Chicago, asshole!" the younger guy shouted. "How the fuck are you going to get all the way to Jamaica from here?"

Claire noticed that Andrew was leaning forward so that he could get a better look at the guy in the leather jacket. "Shut up!" he whispered.

The other guy ignored him. "Jamaica," he muttered bitterly. "What a _fucking_ joke."

But the gunman was finished being made fun of. He walked straight up to where the man was sitting and pointed the gun directly at the guy's head. "Is this a fucking joke?" he asked. "Are you going to be laughing when I put a bullet through your skull, huh?"

Claire's breath caught in her throat, but the younger guy stared up at the gunman, his expression unreadable.

Finally, the gunman pulled his weapon away. "Smug little prick," he muttered, walking back over to the window. He glanced over at the long-haired man once more, then peeked through the shades again.

"You're going to get us killed, you idiot!" Andrew hissed, leaning over Claire again.

The guy rolled his eyes. "He's not going to kill anyone."

"Have you seen that gun?" Andrew asked. "It's not a toy."

"God, can you hear yourself?" the guy asked, incredulous. "Do us all a favor, why don't you, and just shut the fuck up."

Andrew's eyes grew large with surprised anger. "Don't you tell me to shut up!" he whispered fiercely. "You're the one who's running his mouth like you're _trying_ to get us killed!"

"And you're the hero, right?" The guy smiled ironically, shaking his head. "I'm the fuck-up, and you're the hero. You have on a spandex leotard under that suit?"

Andrew opened his mouth to say something else, but Claire held out a hand to stop him. "Can we just stop arguing, please? This isn't going to solve anything."

Andrew glared at the other man for a few extra seconds, then leaned back against the wall, muttering something under his breath.

Claire looked back at the man to her left, studying him tentatively. He looked to be about 25 or so, somewhere around her age. He was tall and thin, and he had dark brown hair that was long enough to brush the collar of his black leather jacket. His hands were rough and callused, the fingertips stained with nicotine.

"Can I help you?"

Claire looked up from the man's hands to see that he was watching her, eyebrow lifted expectantly. She shook her head and looked away.

"You sure? 'Cause if you're bored, I'm sure we can find a way to entertain ourselves. I hear sex is good for stress relief."

Claire looked back at him, eyes wide with shock. "Excuse me?"

The man shrugged, as if the comment was merely obligatory and he was already bored by her indignant reaction.

Claire huffed loudly and turned away from him, crossing her arms over her chest. His words kept tumbling around in her head, like clothes in a dryer. _Bored, entertain, stress…sex._ She could hear him rustling around beside her, but she forced herself to ignore him and keep her eyes facing straight ahead.

A few seconds later, the phone rang, and everyone jumped, just like they had the last time. The gunman released his finger from the gap in the blinds and walked quickly to the manager's desk. "Hello?" He paused, then said sarcastically, "You're very welcome. You can thank me when you send him back with the combination to the safe." His words were directed at the police officer on the phone, but his eyes were focused on the man to Claire's left.

A few seconds passed before the gunman spoke again. "How long is 'a little while', twenty minutes?" There was a pause, and then, "Don't _fuck_ with me!"

Claire jumped, her stomach tightening painfully. Fresh tears pricked the back of her eyelids, but she blinked them away, trying to take deep breaths.

"Okay, fine. You know what? Take your time, alright? Take all the time you need. But in the meantime, there's something else that I want. Bring me a television."

Claire swallowed, glancing over at Andrew. He looked back at her, his brow furrowed in concern. "It's okay," he whispered, and she nodded, trying to believe him.

"I want you to bring it to the door. Knock first, and then when I tell you it's okay, you can open it and come inside. But if you're armed, I'll start killing the hostages." Then, without any further instructions, the gunman slammed the phone down on its cradle and marched back over to the window to stand guard.

"Why does he need a television?" Claire asked Andrew.

"Probably so that he can see what the news stations are saying about him," he answered. "I'll bet they've got every television crew in the city parked out front, waiting for something big to happen."

_Something big… _Claire looked down at her hands and started tracing the lines on her left palm, trying to distract herself.

---------------

"…I'll start killing the hostages."

The gunman slammed the phone down, disconnecting the call. Despite the fact that he saw it coming, Brian jumped slightly at the noise.

Next to him, Lewis shifted so that his legs were stretched out in front of him. Brian glanced over at him. "Do you, uh…do you think Mr. Weisman is okay?" he asked his friend.

Lewis looked over at him. "Yeah, probably." He paused. "He can't be doing any worse than we are."

Brian nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

The boys were quiet for a few minutes. Then Lewis said, "You know who I wonder about?"

Brian looked up. "Who?"

"James," he said, referring to the third teller who had left for bagels before the robbery started. A ghost of a smile passed over Lewis's face. "I wonder if he's eating those bagels without us."

Brian didn't know if it was the ridiculous image of James sitting outside eating an entire box of bagels by himself, or if he was just going into shock, but suddenly he had the urge to giggle. _Really_ giggle. He bit down on his lip to keep the noise in, knowing that if he started that he wouldn't be able to stop.

"It's weird how things work, you know?" asked Lewis, who obviously hadn't noticed Brian's impending hysteria. "I mean, we flipped a coin to see who got to go, and James won. What if I'd won? What if I had been the one to go to the deli? I would be outside and James would be here." He frowned, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. "Weird," he murmured.

Brian watched him for a moment, considering his words and applying them to his own situation. What if _he_ had been the one to leave? What if he had been late to work instead of Marjorie Williams, the bank president? What if he had gone to use the bathroom right before they opened, and he was still back there when the man pulled out the gun? He would have been able to escape out the back, like Richard and Amanda and the other employees that were still talking about television shows in the break room. He would be sitting outside, talking to the police and eating bagels, instead of sitting on the floor as a hostage. It wasn't that he wished that someone else was there instead of him; he just couldn't help but wonder why it had happened the way it had. So many possibilities, so many what ifs.

Brian looked over at Lewis again, but Lewis was staring straight ahead, deep in thought. He wanted to talk to him and ask him questions, but Lewis wasn't a very talkative person, and Brian didn't know what he would say anyway. So he just sat there, fidgeting, trying not to think too much.

At 10:56, approximately 25 minutes after the gunman demanded the television and hung up on the police officer, the phone rang again. Brian jumped slightly, but not as much as the last time.

"Hello?" The gunman paused, listening to the voice on the other end of the line. After a few seconds, he said, "Okay, I'll be waiting. Don't forget to knock first." Then he hung up the phone and looked over at the seven people sitting against the wall.

Brian felt his stomach clench in anticipation, but the gunman wasn't looking at him. "You," he said, motioning with his gun to the redheaded woman. "Come here."

The redhead's eyes grew wide, but she did as she was told, standing up shakily and walking over to where the gunman was standing. He kept the gun pointed at her, but looked out over the rest of the group.

"A police officer is about to come in here with a television. No one will say a single word to him. If you do, I'll kill you and…" He glanced over at the redhead. "What's your name?"

The redheaded woman swallowed deeply. "Claire," she whispered.

The gunman nodded. "Say anything, and I'll kill you _and_ Claire. Got it?"

Everyone nodded, except for Claire, who looked like she was trying not to cry.

Suddenly, there was a soft knock on the door. The gunman grabbed Claire by the arm and pulled her in front of him, putting the gun up against the side of her head. She let out a surprised whimper, but didn't fight him.

"Come in!"

The door opened very slowly, and a man walked in. He was of average height and build, and he had light reddish-brown hair and a goatee. He looked to be about 30 or 35 years old. He was wearing a light blue button-down shirt and a pair of pressed khaki trousers, and there was a police badge clipped to his front pocket. In his left hand was a small, portable television.

"I'm Lieutenant Jason Sikes with the Chicago Police Department," he said, looking straight at the gunman. He held up the television, along with his other hand to show that he wasn't armed. "I brought you what you asked for."

The gunman nodded stiffly. "I know who you are," he spat out, as if he was offended that the man was identifying himself. "Set the TV over there," he said, motioning to the corner by the window, where he had been standing guard, watching the police through the blinds.

"On the floor?" the officer asked.

The gunman paused. "No, put it on a chair."

The officer nodded. "Where would you like me to get the chair from?"

The gunman glanced over at Brian and Lewis, who were sitting a few feet to his right. "Where are the chairs?"

Brian opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out.

"There are some in the break room," said Lewis.

Brian let out a deep breath, grateful to Lewis, but angry with himself.

"Go get one for me," he told him. "No, get me two." He looked back at Lieutenant Sikes, who was still standing a few feet away. "You stay there."

The officer nodded, but didn't say anything.

Brian watched Lewis stand up and walk past the tellers' counter, down the hallway where the employee break room was located. When he disappeared from view, he looked back up at the gunman, who was still holding the redheaded woman in front of him, pressing his gun against her head. A long, thick trail of tears had cut through the make up on her face, but she wasn't making any noise.

"Is everyone alright?" asked Lieutenant Sikes, looking over at the people sitting against the wall. "Is anyone hurt?"

"Don't answer that!" the gunman shouted, glaring at the hostages. "Don't say anything!"

The officer nodded understandingly. "I just wanted to make sure that everyone was alright. I don't want anyone to get hurt today."

"Well, like I said on the phone, that all depends on you," the gunman retorted, glaring at the policeman. "On whether or not you get me what I want."

Lieutenant Sikes nodded. "We're working on that, Richard."

The gunman froze. "How did you know my name?" he asked suspiciously.

"We found your car parked in the 20-minute parking zone," the officer replied.

The gunman stared at him, his nostrils flaring in and out. No one said anything for a long moment.

A few seconds later, Lewis reappeared in the hallway with two chairs, one tucked under each arm. He looked up at the gunman, silently asking for further instructions.

"Put them over by the window," the man told him. "And plug in the TV. I want to make sure it works."

Lewis did as he was told and set the chairs up by the window. Then he and Lieutenant Sikes plugged in the television and set it up on one of the chairs with the screen facing out so that the gunman could see it.

"--robbery taking place at the corner of State Street and Jackson at the State Street Bank, where an armed man has taken seven people hostage. He has already released one hostage, the bank manager, Leo Weisman…"

The screen cut from the newswoman to footage of Mr. Weisman leaving the bank with his hands held up in the air. Within seconds, two police officers had grabbed him and were guiding him past the barricade, out of harm's way.

"The gunman has been identified as 56-year-old Richard Vernon, a former high school principal at Evanston Township High School, just north of the city. Sources say that Vernon was fired last week for the verbal abuse and physical assault of a student at his school. The parents of the student, whose name has not been released to the public, have pressed charges."

"Alright, turn it off!" the gunman yelled. "Turn it off!"

Lieutenant Sikes reached down and pressed the power button. The screen went blank.

"Okay, that's it. You can go," the gunman told him, nodding at the door.

The officer didn't move. "I did what you asked me to do."

The gunman didn't say anything, just waited.

"Why don't you let one of these people go? It's only fair, isn't it? I bought you the television; you can let one of these people go with me." The officer spoke slowly, his voice steady and reasonable, completely calm, as if the gunman was his friend and he was just trying to convince him to walk down to the nearest pub and buy him a beer.

The older man considered his words for a moment. "Okay," he said finally. "But I've changed my mind about something. I don't want the combination to the safe."

The police officer nodded. "And what _do_ you want?"

The gunman paused for emphasis, and Brian thought that he could see him smiling. "One million dollars."

Brian's heart leapt at the sum, but the police officer didn't seem at all disturbed by the request. He might as well have asked for a six-pack of Dr. Pepper and a pack of Funyuns. "Alright," said Officer Sikes. "Are you going to let one of these people go?"

The gunman glanced over at Lewis, who was still standing next to the lieutenant, having not been released to go back to his seat. "You," he said, nodding at the young teller. "Go with him."

Lewis nodded.

Lieutenant Sikes looked the gunman straight in the eye. "Thank you, Richard."

The gunman nodded stiffly. "Go. Get me my money."

The officer nodded and looked over at Lewis. "Come on," he said quietly.

Lewis followed him to the door, glancing back once to look at Brian. Brian nodded to show him that he was going to be fine, and Lewis offered him a hesitant smile that Brian knew was supposed to be encouraging. The next minute, he was gone.

As soon as the door closed, the gunman released the redhead, who let out a choked sob of relief and went back to sit by the wall. She folded her knees up against her chest and wrapped her arms around her calves, holding on tightly as another wave of silent tears ran down her cheeks.

The gunman walked back over to the window and peeked through the blinds, watching to see how Lewis and the lieutenant were doing outside. He stayed there for the better part of a minute, then sat down in one of the chairs from the employee break room. He positioned the other chair so that he could see the television, then flipped on the power and turned down the volume so that the hostages couldn't hear what was being said.

Brian looked down at the empty space beside him, where Lewis had been sitting only a few minutes earlier. Already, he missed his friend. He was glad that he was safe, but he missed him nonetheless. Lewis was steady and observant, and he knew what to say when Brian couldn't find the words. He didn't know what he was going to do without him.

Brian sighed and tucked his legs up against his chest, just as the redheaded girl had done. He leaned his head back against the wall and looked over at the other hostages, the customers. The girl next to him, the brunette, was chewing on her fingernails, looking straight ahead. The businessman was watching at the gunman with a fierce, thoughtful look on his face, while the girl with the red hair looked down at the floor, rocking back and forth, very slowly. The man in the leather jacket had his hands stuffed into his pockets and was staring at the door.

And that's when Brian realized that he was the only bank employee left besides Carl. These people had come into the bank where he worked, and someone had taken them hostage. He felt like it had happened in his own house, and he knew that there was a certain degree of responsibility that came with that position. The other bank employees, the ones that had escaped, would be counting on him to help keep everyone safe. Mr. Weisman wasn't there anymore to help him, and neither was Lewis. He was all alone.

Without warning, Brian's chest tightened up, and he found that he couldn't breathe. He closed his eyes and pressed his hand firmly against the place just over his heart, trying to make the pain go away. It was a familiar feeling, knowing that there was so much expected of him and that he was probably going to fail.

"You okay?"

Brian opened his eyes to find Carl watching him with a concerned expression on his face. He nodded. "Yeah."

Carl paused. "You sure?"

Brian took a deep breath, forcing air into his lungs. He nodded again. "Yeah…I'm fine."

**A/N: **Okay, so to answer the OTHER question that some of you had, YES, the gunman is Vernon. But, again, I'm manipulating the circumstances a bit. He _was_ a high school principal, but at Evanston Township High School (a real high school located in Evanston, which is just north of Chicago), not Shermer High School. So, none of the BC members will recognize him. That's the beauty of AU. I get to do whatever the heck I want to. :)

And I promise that you'll hear from the others in the next chapter. Please review!


	4. Boredom

**A/N:** Thank you for all of the reviews! I really appreciate them. Thanks also to Lori, who beta-ed this chapter for me. Go read her story "Here Goes Nothing", which is listed on my favorites and on the main Breakfast Club page.

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**Chapter Four: Boredom**

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Carl was starting to think that he'd made a mistake.

Calling the cops had sounded like a good idea. Hell, when was calling the cops ever _not_ a good idea, unless you were just goofing around? Apparently, he had his answer. Apparently, it was when someone was robbing the bank that you worked for and calling the cops meant that you inadvertently set into motion a hostage situation instead of just letting the guy leave with a few thousand bucks in his pocket.

He didn't know if that was his fault or the cops'.

Not that it really mattered at that point, since they were stuck there, regardless. And it didn't look like they were going anywhere for a while. The gunman, Richard Vernon, seemed pretty adamant about getting his money, and Carl knew enough about situations like these to know that the police weren't about to give it to him. The negotiator, Lieutenant Sikes, would have promised Vernon ocean front property in Arizona if it meant getting one more hostage out alive, but that sure as hell didn't mean that he was going to get it. He wondered if Vernon realized that, or if he was just so desperate that he didn't want to face facts.

Carl glanced over to his left, where he could see the others sitting against the wall. The guy with the leather jacket looked bored, which Carl considered a bad sign. He'd already acted like an idiot by yelling at the gunman and practically begging the guy to shoot him. It frustrated Carl beyond reason, but he couldn't be too mad at him. After all, he remembered what it was like to be young and stupid, and there was a time when he thought he was invincible, too. He just hoped it wouldn't take a bullet to the forehead to convince this kid otherwise.

The redheaded girl had calmed down considerably since the police officer left. Having a gun put to her head had shaken her up, and for good reason, and for a while there he was worried that she was going to have some kind of break down. She'd cried for a while, but then she'd wiped the tears away and pulled herself together. Under the silk shirt and expensive trousers, she must have been stronger than she let on.

Brian was a different story. He was sitting with his legs tucked up against his chest, his forehead resting on his kneecaps. He'd managed to keep himself together alright, but Carl was worried that at any moment he was going to fall apart. Ever since Lewis had left, he had been strangely quiet, and Carl would see that the panic was starting to set in. He didn't blame him. Brian was a good kid, and Carl imagined that he hadn't been in too many situations like this one.

"You okay?"

Brian glanced up, startled. When he saw that Carl was looking at him, he nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly.

Carl nodded slowly, watching him. It probably wouldn't hurt to make conversation, try and distract him for a while. "Didn't expect this first thing in the morning, did you?"

Brian hesitated, then shook his head.

Carl nodded. "Yeah, I sure as hell wasn't prepared. Didn't even get to finish mopping the bathroom."

It took Brian a minute, but he let out a soft laugh. "Yeah," he said, smiling. "I haven't even eaten breakfast."

Carl sighed. "I could go for some coffee right about now. You drink coffee?"

Brian shrugged. "If I'm tired, or if I have to stay up late."

Carl nodded. "How's school going?"

Without warning, Brian's eyes grew wide, and his face went ashen. "Fine," he said quickly, turning away.

Uh oh.

Carl watched him for a moment, knowing that he'd asking the right question…or the wrong one, depending on point of view. He knew that look on Brian's face, because it was the same look he probably had on his face when his father asked him how school was going back when he was in college. And both of them knew how that had turned out for him.

He could only hope that Brian's situation wasn't that dire.

"Excuse me, Rich?"

Carl looked over to see that the guy with the long hair was looking at the gunman. The gunman glanced up, irritated. "What?"

The other guy sighed. "What're we supposed to do if we have to take a piss?"

Carl sighed. It was going to be a very long day.

---------------

John was bored.

It had been over half an hour since the police negotiator left with the brown-haired bank teller, and not much had happened since. The idiot with the nine-millimeter semi-automatic was still camped out in front of the television with the volume turned down low so that the hostages couldn't hear all of the crap the media was saying about him. John wondered if he wasn't really watching Flintstones reruns and just pretending to watch the news.

John shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable. It wasn't easy since he really had to go pee and had been trying to hold it for the last hour and a half. If he'd known what was going to happen when he set foot in the bank, he would have just taken his chances with Ted at the deli. He might have gotten his head shoved in the toilet, but at least he would have been able to leave when it was over.

John looked back over at the gunman, who was still watching the television, his eyes glazed over with stupidity. Honestly, John didn't think that he had ever met such a stupid person in his entire life, and that was really saying something, considering some of the idiots he ran into on a daily basis. He obviously didn't have a clue what he was doing, which he had proven when he'd demanded the combination to the bank safe, along with a ticket to Jamaica. Because, come on, _Jamaica_? John was pissed off that his entire day was being wasted by someone that wasn't going to get what he wanted at the end of it all. A smart criminal he might have had more patience for, but this guy was starting to piss him off. He knew that it was only a matter of time before the gunman either got arrested or killed, and personally, he was hoping for the latter.

"Excuse me, Rich?"

The gunman looked up, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What?" he asked irritably.

John sighed. "What're we supposed to do if we have to take a piss?"

The man wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Use the floor," he told him, looking back at the screen.

John lifted his eyebrows. "Okay…" He reached down and started unzipping his pants.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed the redhead sitting to his right. "You're not going to do it, are you?"

John rolled his eyes. This was really starting to get old. "Yeah, I am."

The girl's eyes widened. "That's disgusting!"

John scoffed dismissively. "You know what, lady? I've been sitting here for an hour and a half, and my balls are starting to cramp up. You try going that long, and then you tell me how disgusting it is, alright?"

The redhead just shook her head. "You are _not_ going to do that on the floor."

John moved his face close to hers and looked her straight in the eye. "Watch me."

To her credit, the girl didn't draw back or move away. "I will not watch you _urinate_," she whispered angrily.

"So, turn around and shut up," he told her.

The girl kept glaring at him for a moment before she turned to look straight ahead. Satisfied, John reached down to finish unzipping his jeans.

"Excuse me, sir?"

John looked over at the redhead, who was looking at the gunman and raising her hand, as if she was in class, waiting for the teacher to call on her. "Excuse me!" she said again.

The gunman looked up. "What!"

The girl lowered her hand. "I am not going to sit here while he urinates on the floor," she informed him.

The gunman glared at her. "Lady, I don't care if he shits in your lap. I'm not letting him leave this room."

The girl huffed angrily. "It's going to smell!" she exclaimed.

The gunman narrowed his eyes. "Well, you'll have to get used to it because I'm not letting him leave." Without waiting for her to respond, he looked back down at his television.

John reached down and started unzipping his pants very slowly, watching her face to see how she would respond. She didn't look back over at him, but he could see that her breathing had become irregular, and she was having a hard time keeping her eyes facing forward. He finished unzipping his pants, then waited.

A few seconds later, her eyes flickered down to his crotch.

John grinned. "Like what you see?" he whispered in her ear.

The woman flushed deeply, but didn't say anything.

"Because, sweets, there's more where that came from."

The woman turned swiftly so that she was facing him. "You slimy, perverted little…"

"Little? Wanna look again?"

The woman let out a choked, indignant scoff and turned away. "Excuse me!" she said, raising her hand again. "Can you _please_ let him go to the bathroom?"

The gunman looked up, exasperated. "I thought I told you to shut up!"

"Really, sir, can't you let him go, just for a minute?" she asked desperately.

"Oh, and let him escape out the back?" the man answered sarcastically. "I'm not that stupid."

"Oh, I think that's debatable," John muttered.

"It'll only be for a minute," the redhead assured the gunman. "You can send someone with him."

The gunman sighed. "Fine, go to the bathroom, but take him with you." He motioned to the businessman sitting on the other side of the redhead. "Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. I think you know what will happen to these people here if one of you tries to escape."

The businessman nodded and stood up from the floor. John didn't move. "I don't need a babysitter," he told him.

"Just go!" the redhead hissed.

John sighed and stood up, making a big show of zipping his pants up again. The man in the suit waited for him to finish before he started walking down the hallway leading to the back of the bank.

As soon as they got to the bathroom, the businessman shut the door behind him and grabbed John by the arm. "Okay, we have to think of something we can do to get us out of here," he said.

John shrugged him off and walked over to the nearest urinal. "I have to pee."

The businessman just stared at him. "We have to do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know yet. I was hoping you had some ideas."

John shrugged. "Can't say I've really thought much about it."

The man stared at him for a long moment. "We're hostages in a bank robbery!"

John turned to look at him, eyes wide. "No shit! Is that what's going on? I thought we were throwing someone a surprise party!"

The man clenched his jaw angrily. "This may be a joke to you, but there are some really freaked out people sitting out there, and I want to get them out."

"Oh, _you _want to get them out?" John zipped up his pants and stepped back from the urinal. "I forgot, you're the hero, aren't you?" He tapped himself on the head. "My memory really isn't what it used to be."

The man shook his head. "I'm not trying to be a hero. I'm trying to make sure that everyone gets out of here alive. You could be doing the same, you know."

John scoffed. "What the fuck makes you think I care about what's going on here, huh? The guy's a whack job, an idiot. His I.Q. is smaller than my shoe size. It's not going to take much for the police to take him down, and they sure as hell don't need our help doing it. I'm not looking to play the hero and make the six o'clock news, alright? We sit down, let the guy fuck it up by himself, and we'll be out of here in an hour, tops."

The guy nodded. "And if he doesn't? If it doesn't end in an hour?"

John shrugged. "I get a day off from work."

The businessman stared back at him in disbelief. "You selfish bastard. Don't you ever think of anyone but yourself?"

"Not if I can help it."

"There are four other people in there!" the man exclaimed, pointing roughly in the direction of the lobby. "He's got a gun. Someone could get killed!"

"Yeah, and I'm trying to make sure it isn't me."

"Well, you're doing a great job then, making fun of the guy with the gun," he responded sarcastically.

"The guy is a fucking retard," John countered. "He probably doesn't even know how to use it."

"The police could use our help," the man said, trying to keep his voice steady. "We have information they could use. We're on the inside. We could help them take this guy down."

"Oh, is that what they said on the phone?" John asked. "Is that what the cop told you earlier? 'Mr. Clark, we need your help.' Is that what he told you?"

The man pursed his lips together, but didn't answer.

John nodded. "That's what I thought."

"Fine, you're not going to help?" the guy asked. "I'll do it myself."

John nodded understandingly. "I suspect you will. You sure you aren't wearing a leotard under that suit, Superman?"

The man glared at him. "Screw you," he spat out bitterly.

"Cape? Tights?"

The man turned away. "Fucking asshole," he muttered, yanking open the bathroom door and walking out into the hall.

John smirked and followed him. "Got that right."

---------------

Allison was tired.

Before she'd gotten stuck at the bank, she'd been looking forward to going back to her apartment to sleep off the night shift from hell. Two of her co-workers had called in "sick", which meant that Allison had gotten stuck with every drug addict and lowlife that decided they were hungry for eggs and bacon at two o'clock in the morning. They never tipped--at least, not well--and the only reason Allison had earned any money at all was because a few of the regulars had come in. Writers and artists, mostly, with their notebooks and sketchpads, their pens and their charcoal pencils. Sometimes she stood behind the counter and watched them write or draw, wondering what they were thinking about. She wondered if they just let their mind go blank or if they were dreaming of other people and places, like she did when she pulled out her sketchpad. Other places like San Francisco or London or Tokyo.

Or Vermont.

Carefully, Allison slipped her hand into the right pocket of her coat and curled her fingers around the worn-out piece of paper that she carried with her everywhere. Even though she wasn't looking at it, she could still see the picture in her head. Snow-covered bridges, streams and riverbeds, forests and orchards and blue, blue sky. She knew the exact shade of oil pastel that she was going to use when she got there.

_If I can just get out of this stupid bank._

Allison glanced over at the gunman, who was still sitting by the window, watching television. She was having a hard time envisioning him as a high school principal, with all of the swearing and gun waving that he'd been doing. But she knew as well as anyone the lengths that people would go to when their life fell apart. Some people did crazy things like kill their bosses and rob banks, and others were a little more subtle about it and just ignored their spouses and children.

Yes, Allison definitely knew all about that.

The gunman reached forward and turned the station, probably to a different news station. She wondered how much information he was gathering from the news reports and how much it would help him in the long run, if at all. The guy with the long hair had told him right to his face that he was screwing everything up, and Allison had to agree. He obviously didn't have any idea what he was doing, and his actions spoke more to his desperation than his expertise. He was like a cornered animal, striking out at everyone who represented a threat, preying on the weaknesses of others to compensate for his own flaws and mistakes. She knew that he wasn't very clever or observant, and she knew that his fear was probably impairing his judgment, but that didn't bring her any comfort at all. Desperate, unstable people did stupid things, even on accident. Push him too hard and he might do more than just threaten people with his gun. He might just use it.

Allison sighed and leaned her head back so that it was resting against the wall behind her. A few feet to her right, the redheaded girl named Claire was looking down at her lap, studying her nails. Allison wondered what she was thinking about the whole situation. She was scared, of course. She'd proven that when the gunman had used her as a shield when the officer came in with the television, and Allison couldn't really say that she blamed her. She wouldn't want a gun pressed against her head, either.

To Allison's right, the bank teller and the janitor were sitting quietly. Neither of them had spoken much since they'd taken their seats. The janitor seemed pretty composed, but the blonde teller--Brian, according to his name tag--was definitely having a hard time keeping his emotions in check. He was staring straight ahead, eyes focused on the far wall, and he looked like he was thinking about something really unpleasant, because his eyes were dark with worry and he kept dragging ragged breaths of air through his nostrils like he was trying not to cry.

After a few seconds, the businessman walked back into the lobby, with the long-haired guy following a few steps behind. The businessman looked more than a little bit angry, and if the satisfied smirk on the other guy's face was any indication, she had a feeling she knew why. He lowered himself back down onto the floor to her left and let out a frustrated sigh.

The next half hour passed rather uneventfully. The gunman continued watching TV, and everybody else stared at the ceiling. Allison was pretty good at keeping herself occupied when there wasn't anything to do, so she didn't fare too badly. She found a piece of string at the bottom of her bag and started making herself a knot bracelet.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Allison looked up to see that the redheaded girl was looking at the gunman, hand held up in the air. The gunman looked up from his television. "What?"

The woman lowered her hand. "I'm really thirsty."

The man just stared at her, waiting for the punch line. "So?"

The woman paused. "So, can't we have something to drink?"

The gunman scoffed. "Oh, sure, why not? I'll call room service and have them bring something down."

The woman looked slightly irritated by the gunman's sarcasm. She sighed and settled back against the wall.

"There's a Coke machine in the employee break room."

Allison looked over to her left, where the janitor was sitting. "There's also a vending machine," he added.

The gunman stared at the janitor for a moment, obviously not happy with this new development. Finally, he sighed. "Fine." He scanned the group, finally settling on the man sitting to Allison's left, the guy in the suit. "You," he said, nodding in his direction.

The younger man sighed. "Not again," he muttered under his breath.

And then the gunman looked over at Allison. "And you. Go with him."

---------------

**A/N:** Please review. Thank you!


	5. Choose Your Words Carefully

**A/N:** Okay, so it's been nine months since I've updated this story, and that's entirely inexcusable, so I won't even try. But I started reading it again and remembered how much I loved writing it, so here I am with chapter five, yay! Thanks for your patience, and enjoy!

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Chapter Five: Choose Your Words Carefully…

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"…police have barricaded the streets on either side of the bank, so if you have plans to be anywhere in the area this afternoon, you might need to find an alternate route. Police tell us that they are working to get the situation resolved as quickly as possible, but as it is with most cases such as these, it's impossible to determine when that resolution will come. Now we're going to take a quick commercial break, but when we come back: can drinking from the city's water supply give you stomach cancer? The answer when we return."

Richard Vernon huffed loudly and reached forward to change the channel to a different news channel. All of the basic stations were covering the robbery, but not exclusively, of course. He spent most of his time flipping back and forth between the channels, hoping for tidbits of information that could help him figure out how to get himself out of this mess. With a million dollars, of course.

Richard flipped back over to channel two, which was doing the heaviest coverage of the robbery. They'd been interviewing people all day, including people on the street, police officers, and even the owner of the deli across the street. Most of them thought he was a scumbag, which was predictable. It still made him angry, though.

"…have identified the gunman, Richard Vernon, as the same man we reported on last week when he was released from his teaching position at Evanston Township High School, where he worked as an English teacher. Vernon was fired when he was caught assaulting one of his students in the boys' bathroom during school hours. Sources at the school reveal that Vernon had an uncontrollable temper and this wasn't the first time one of his students caught the brunt of it."

The screen cut from the news desk to a piece of footage of a man standing outside of the high school. It was Harold Winston, one of the other English teachers, with his toupee all askew from the wind. He had a very serious look on his face, like he'd just been informed that his mother had died.

"Richard was very troubled," said Winston, reaching up to pat his hair. "He pretended that he had it all together, but I could tell that something was wrong. I once caught him yelling at a student in the hallway, berating the poor boy for being late to class. I confronted him about it, but he just pushed me away. I knew then that something was going to happen if he wasn't stopped."

The screen flashed back to the news desk, where the anchor was nodded solemnly, caught up in Winston's story. But Richard wasn't even listening anymore. That fucking prick! How dare he spread rumors like that about him? And in retrospect! Winston knew just as well as anyone that the kid in the hallway wasn't just some kid who was "late for class". He was mouthing off, just like all the punks at Evanston Township, and his tongue lashing had been well deserved. So typical of Harold Winston to turn it inside out just so he could say "I told you so" in front of a team of news cameras.

_Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Winston_, he thought bitterly.

The news anchor put a hand to her ear, and her eyes flickered back up to the camera. "We're getting news now that the boy's name has finally been released. Jacob Brown, sixteen-year-old sophomore at Evanston Township High School, was the victim of last week's physical assault…"

Onscreen, the boy's picture popped up. He was smiling innocently, hair combed back neatly, shirt tucked in. Richard almost didn't recognize him. He felt his hands curl into fists in his lap.

"…the student was checked into the local hospital and released a few hours later. His parents, John and Winifred Brown, have pressed charges against Vernon, whom they are calling a 'cruel and ruthless dictator'."

_Oh, yeah?_ thought Richard, swearing quietly under his breath. _Did you mention to the media that your son is a fucking drug dealer and that he was selling marijuana in the bathroom when he was supposed to be in class? Did you mention that he was a slimy little punk and that he practically dared me to hit him?_ His hands curled into fists so tight that his knuckles were probably turning white. _Did you mention that he fucking _deserved_ it?_

Onscreen, the newscaster was back, reading from a piece of paper on the desk in front of her. "In light of Vernon's robbery attempt, the administrators at Evanston Township are expressing shock and concern, sending their prayers to the families of the five people still being held hostage at State Street Bank."

The woman kept talking, but Richard couldn't even hear her anymore. All he could hear were the words "shock" and "prayers" and "hostages". He blinked a couple of times, but all he could see was the television screen, which was showing footage of the police barricade outside of the bank.

_What on earth have I done?_

"Excuse me, sir?"

Richard glanced up, startled out of his reverie. The redhead with the expensive clothing was looking at him hopefully, hand raised to get his attention. "What?" he asked distractedly.

The woman lowered her hand slowly. "I'm really thirsty."

Vernon blinked, trying to figure out what she was getting at. "So?"

"So, can't we have something to drink?" she whined, scrunching up her nose.

It was the tone in her voice that irritated him the most. Like she was used to being waited on and couldn't quite figure out why he wasn't doing the same. Couldn't she see that he wasn't exactly in a position to carry out her every whim and desire? Couldn't she see that he was a little _fucking_ busy right now?

"Oh, sure, why not?" he replied snidely. "I'll call room service and have them bring something down."

That shut her up. She blinked a couple of times, then settled back against the wall with a sigh.

Richard started to look back at the television, but then someone else spoke up. "There's a Coke machine in the employee break room."

Richard glanced over at the janitor, who was watching him closely with eyes that looked like they were more observant than Richard was comfortable with. "There's also a vending machine," he added, probably just to piss him off.

Richard glared at him for a moment, going over his options. The rich girl was used to getting her way, and if he didn't get her what she wanted then she would just whine all day, and then he might shoot her, just to shut her up. And that would completely blow all of his chances at getting out with a million dollars in hand. Also, he was pretty hungry himself and a can of Coke sounded pretty good right about then.

"Fine," he said finally, released a weary sigh. He glanced over at the customers – no way was he letting the janitor go wandering around a building that he knew better than the back of his hand – and his eyes settled on the guy in the suit. Clark something, the one he'd had answer the phone earlier when the cops had called. He seemed like a responsible guy, someone he could trust not to try something stupid. Richard nodded in his direction.

"You."

The man sighed, but didn't say anything, and Richard looked at the girl to the man's right. She hadn't said anything all day, which Vernon appreciated, and he didn't anticipate that she was likely to cause much trouble either. "And you. Go with him."

Both of them stood slowly, and the man in the suit offered the girl his hand to help her up. The girl ignored it and walked on ahead of him, heading towards the employee break room. Her knapsack bumped against her hip as she moved.

"Both of you know what's going to happen if you don't come back!" he called after them, just to be safe. Neither of them turned around.

"Hey, I don't know what's going to happen. It's not fair if you don't tell us, too."

Richard looked over at the wall, where the guy with the leather jacket was watching him, mouth curled into a lazy smirk. He had long hair and an earring in his left ear, and his pants were all shredded up like he'd gotten into a street fight just before he walked in.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do," said Richard, standing up from his chair. He flicked his wrist, waving the gun briefly through the air. "If they don't come back, I'm going to put a bullet through your heart."

"Not the head?" The guy shook his head. "The heart's so messy. The head is a clean shot if you've got good aim." He paused, lifting an eyebrow. "Do you have good aim, Rich?"

There it was, that look, that fucking look, like the junkie in the bathroom with his ignorance and arrogance and that fucking look on his face! Richard felt his arms trembling with pure, white-hot anger as he lifted the gun so that it was level with the little snot's forehead.

"You don't need to have good aim when you're standing as close as I am," he replied stonily, keeping his eyes glued to the other man's face.

The guy grinned as if Richard had just said something amusing, and there wasn't a speck of fear in his eyes. What idiot wasn't afraid when he had a gun pointed at his forehead? What sad, stupid little troll couldn't even muster up a shred of respect for the one with his finger on the trigger? He wanted to pull that trigger, to watch the look on the kid's face in that split second before the bullet connected with his brain. Maybe then he would be afraid. Maybe then he would wipe the smug grin off of his face. Maybe then he'd realize that he was a worthless little shit with nothing but a big ego and a big mouth.

But Vernon didn't pull the trigger. He stood there for a long moment, gun still pointed at the kid's face, before he let his hand fall to his side. "You're not worth going to prison for," he told him.

The guy snorted derisively. "I thought you were going to _Jamaica_?"

Richard didn't know what to say to that, so he turned away and went back to his seat in front of the television. The guy with the leather jacket was saying something to the woman next to him, but Richard ignored him and turned up the volume, tuning everyone out.

* * *

Andy followed the girl down the hallway towards the employee break room, watching her knapsack bump against her hip with every step. She was walking quickly, with both hands clasped around the strap of the knapsack, like she was afraid that he was going to grab it from her and take off with it. 

"Don't worry," he told her, trying to keep his voice down low so that no one in the lobby could hear him. "I'm sure we'll be out of here soon."

She turned to look at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. It was that same look from earlier, when the whole thing had just started and he'd asked if she was okay. Like maybe he was in on it or something.

"How do you know?" she demanded.

Andy blinked. "How do I know what?"

She cocked her head to the side, eyes searching his. "How do you know we'll be out soon?"

Andy paused uncertainly. Wasn't that what you were supposed to say in situations like this to calm people down? No one questioned it. They just nodded and said thank you and felt better. "I don't," he admitted. "But I didn't want you to be scared."

"Who said I was scared?" she asked.

It was Andy's time to narrow his eyes. What was she playing at anyway? All of them were scared, and he doubted that she was the one exception. Before he could open his mouth to point this out, she'd turned and entered the door to her right, which just so happened to be the employee break room.

"Do you have any money?" she asked pointedly.

Andy hesitated for only a second before reaching into his back pants pocket for his wallet. He could see her out of the corner of his eyes, watching him flip it open to reveal a row of credit cards. His fingers pulled open the section for the bills, and he removed one.

"All I have is a twenty," he told her, holding the bill up for her inspection. "Do you have anything smaller?"

The girl was staring at him, jaw clenched in what looked like anger. He sighed. "I guess we have to go back and ask him for some money."

He started to turn back towards the hallway, but the girl made a little squeaking noise, presumably to express her profound irritation, and jammed her hand into the pocket of her black trousers. He watched with curiosity as she rummaged around for a moment, finally pulling her hand out to reveal a huge wad of one dollar bills.

"Wow," he blurted stupidly. "Where'd you get those?"

"I stole them," she retorted, refusing to look up at him as she sorted the bills, smoothing a couple of them out on the table next to them.

Andy felt his face flush with embarrassment. "Are you a waitress or something?" he asked, remembering his earlier observation that her white button-down shirt and black slacks were probably a uniform of some kind.

The girl didn't look up. "What do you care?"

Andy scoffed, finally tired of trying to be nice. "I guess I don't. Forget I asked."

The girl ignored him and turned to one of the vending machines, where she fed a bill into the machine and pushed a series of buttons. It made a whirring sound, and a few seconds a Snickers bar fell into from its slot. She bent down to pull it out, then picked up her coins from the change slot.

"May I?" Andy asked, reaching for one of the bills on the table.

She shrugged and inserted a couple of quarters into the machine.

Andy took a handful of dollars and walked over to the Coke machine. He bought an Orange Slice and a Big Red for himself, then a couple of Cokes and Sprites for the others. When he was almost finished, he glanced behind him, where the girl was shoving a bag of cookies into her knapsack. "What kind of drink do you want?" he asked.

The girl looked up, smiling almost imperceptibly. "Do they have vodka?"

It took him a minute, but Andy found himself fighting back a smile. "No, I don't think so," he replied.

The girl sighed, but didn't say anything, just went back to purchasing their snacks. Andy watched her insert dollar bills into the slot, watched her jam her thumb against the bright red buttons. Her fingers were long and slender, like his sister's, and he wondered if she played the piano like Hannah did. Knowing it would only earn him a blunt insult if he dared ask, he turned back to the soda machine and scanned the names of the sodas available for purchase. After a moment of indecision, he guessed that she wanted a Coke and slid the bill into the machine.

* * *

Claire was definitely not enjoying all of this gun waving. 

"You're not worth going to prison for," the gunman told the man sitting next to her. The gun was back at his side, but that wasn't doing much for her rapid heart rate.

In response, the guy snorted. "I thought you were going to _Jamaica_?" he replied, grinning at the last word. She knew how much he thought of the gunman's vacation plans, which wasn't much. She didn't really think much of them either, but at this point she was almost willing to pay for the plane ticket herself if it got her out of that godforsaken bank.

The gunman went to sit back down in front of his television, but Claire could see that the guy to her left was still watching him, eyes narrowed and mouth turned into a smug smirk. There was something else there, too. Something deeper, but she couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was.

"You're going to get yourself killed," she hissed at him.

The man pulled his eyes away from the gunman and glanced over at her. "Which one are you more worried about: my life or your blouse?"

Claire blinked. "What?"

The guy rolled his eyes. "If I get my head shot off, my brains are going to be splattered all over your shirt." He lifted his eyebrows in challenge. "It's silk, isn't it?"

Claire glared at him. "I've got more at home."

He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. "I'm sure you do, Princess."

Claire felt a pang in her stomach. Her dad used to call her Princess, even when she grew too old for the nickname. It felt strange to have someone else refer to her that way, especially when the name obviously held no affection for him.

"My name's not _Princess_," she told him flatly. "It's Claire."

The man looked over at her, a little more seriously than he had before. "Kah-laire?" he asked, pronouncing it as though he'd never heard the name before in his life.

"Yes," she said defensively. "It's a family name."

The guy shrugged and turned away.

But Claire wasn't finished. "What's your name?" she asked.

The guy didn't even look up. "Barry Manilow."

Claire glared at him. "Very funny. What's your _real_ name?"

"What the hell does it matter?" he asked.

"It doesn't," Claire said irritably. "I just thought that if we're going to be stuck in here with each other for a while that we should probably know each other's names."

The guy rolled his eyes. "That's so sweet."

Claire scoffed and looked away. "Never mind," she muttered.

A few seconds passed, and then she heard, "John." She looked over to see that the guy was watching her. "Happy?" he asked.

Claire smiled. "Maybe."

John shook his head and leaned back against the wall, facing the door.

Claire sighed and looked back at the gunman, who was watching television again. He was still holding the gun in his right hand, but his finger wasn't on the trigger and it wasn't pointed in her direction, which was worth something, at least.

Claire noticed a movement out of the corner of her right eye, and she looked over to see that a few feet away the blonde bank teller was stretching his legs out in front of him. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back against the wall just like John was doing. But unlike John, the other boy didn't seem indifferent to the situation. He was staring straight ahead with his eyes glazed over, like there was just too much going on inside to process it all and he'd just given up on trying. She knew the feeling.

"Brian?" she said gently.

The boy glanced up quickly, eyes wide. The janitor, who was sitting to the boy's right, looked up also. She felt her face flush with embarrassment.

"Sorry," she said quietly. "It's on your nametag."

The boy glanced down at his nametag, as though he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh."

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You, um…you look a little pale."

Brian paused, then nodded quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Are, uh, are you alright?"

Claire nodded. "Yeah, thanks." There was an awkward silence, where both of them were looking at one another without knowing what to say. What, exactly, was someone supposed to say in a situation like theirs? She was pretty sure that Peggy Post had never written anything about hostage etiquette.

"I'm sure they'll be back in a minute with the drinks," she said just to fill the space. Plus, he looked really freaked out and for some reason her mothering instincts were kicking in and she just couldn't stop talking.

Brian nodded uncertainly. "Yeah, I hope so." He paused. "I actually have to use the bathroom."

"I'm sure he'll let you go when the others come back," she assured him, as if the gunman was a completely reasonable, predictable guy that wouldn't have any problem letting yet another hostage roam free about the building. "I mean, maybe if someone went with you, maybe," she finished. "Like John."

"I'm not a babysitter," John replied bluntly from behind her.

She turned around to glare at him. "Andrew went with you when you had to use the restroom," she pointed out.

John scoffed. "I'm sorry, am I supposed to be grateful? Because some ass wipe escorted me to use the potty? I don't think so."

Claire pursed her lips together. "You're not helping the situation at all. We're all stuck here together. The least we could do is help one other out."

"If you want to help me out, give me a blowjob," he told her seriously. "Otherwise, leave me alone."

Claire didn't even hesitate. Her palm connected with his cheek with an audible _snap_, leaving a large red mark on the side of his face. At least a small part of him must have been expecting it, because he didn't cry out. He just reached up to smooth his fingers soothingly against his cheek.

"Ow."

* * *

Allison watched Andy feed a dollar bill into the Coke machine, then pause for a long moment, scanning the names for the brand of soda that he wanted. He finally decided on root beer, which was the only drink that he hadn't selected yet from the machine. She realized that he didn't know what the others preferred and was getting a selection that would hopefully please everyone. For some reason, she found this oddly endearing, probably because she didn't expect it from someone like him. 

He looked up from the machine, probably feeling her eyes on him. "What?" he asked.

Allison shrugged, feigning indifference. "Are you done?"

He looked back at the group of cans on the table. "Yeah, I guess." He reached for the sleeve of his button-down shirt and started rolling it up to the elbow, revealing a tan, toned arm covered in fine blonde hairs. Allison swallowed deeply and turned away, grabbing the bags of chips and cookies that she'd pulled from the snack machine. She stuffed all of the snacks into her bag, then turned back to help Andy with the drinks. He cradled three in each arm, which left her to carry the last three.

"Thanks," he said. "The rest of your money is on the table. I used five dollars."

Allison snatched the wad of bills – much smaller now than when she'd arrived at the bank – from the table and jammed it into her pocket, balancing the cans in the crook of her left arm. Andy grabbed his wallet from the table, along with the twenty dollar bill he'd removed earlier.

"So, are you really a waitress or not?" he asked, watching her swing her knapsack over her shoulder again.

Allison shrugged, adjusting her bag so that it fit snugly against her hip.

"Because you have all those one dollar bills. You're either a waitress or a stripper."

Allison looked up slowly, just to see if he was serious. Apparently he was, because he was watching her closely to gauge her reaction. He must have realized he'd said the wrong thing, because immediately his eyes widened and his cheeks flushed pink.

"I mean, you don't look like a stripper," he said quickly.

Allison just kept glaring at him. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Allison beat him to the punch. Before he could even move, she snatched the twenty dollar bill out of his hand and walked out the door.**

* * *

**

**A/N:** If you like action-packed stories (and our favorite criminal, John Bender), then you should check out TWbasketcase's story _Renegade_, which is one of my current favorites. You can find it under the 'M' stories or on my profile under my list of favorite stories.

Thanks for reading. Please review!


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